


An Exception Or Two

by barricadebastard



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, I'll add more as I go along, Joan POV, Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotations, idk how to tag man
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-09-19 10:40:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9436580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barricadebastard/pseuds/barricadebastard
Summary: Dating Sherlock would have been a somewhat surreal concept just a few months ago, but once theyaredating, it feels natural. They fit together like pieces of a puzzle, if Joan was going to be honest. But how does Marcus fit into their relationship? Well, it's pretty rare to find a puzzle made of only two pieces.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fragilelittleteacup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/gifts).



> so this is inspired by all of fragilelittleteacups works, because honestly they are a godsend to this fandom and im not even gonna tell you to check out their fics because they've written 90% of the fics in the elementary tag and you've probably already read their stuff

It had all started when Sherlock had accused her of wanting to sleep with his brother because he was apparently a cheap substitute for himself. She had scorned his theory at the time, finding it laughable that she could possibly harbour feelings for her friend and colleague with no awareness of doing so. Perhaps he had been just teasing… Though that wasn’t typical of Sherlock. 

And thus the overthinking began. 

Every little movement, every close proximity, every glance of those tattoos adorning admittedly strong arms; all she could do in such moments was wonder if Sherlock had been right. After all, she wasn't so blind that she couldn't acknowledge that he was good-looking - though she would never admit this out loud - and the two of them had become close enough through their misadventures that she could confidently say that she had seen sides to Sherlock that others hadn't. It was, frankly, unsurprising that she had managed to fall for him amidst the whirlwind of exhilarating cases, late night deductions and early morning intrusions in her bedroom. 

Perhaps it had been a long time coming. Perhaps she should have predicted this from the day she met him when he stood too close, too  _ shirtless,  _ reciting some stupid romantic line from some TV show or other until her heart was beating so wildly in her chest that she was sure it would break her ribs and fall out. Perhaps she should have seen it coming when she was actually a teensy bit disappointed when she realised it was a recitation, and not his true feelings. Or perhaps, this was a recent thing, a new development that creeped up on her like a prowling predator, before pouncing on her and snapping her neck in one fatal crunch, proving what she had always known: a crush on Sherlock Holmes would be a deadly disaster. 

Perhaps she was being a tad dramatic.

Joan pushed the matter out of her mind, continuing her work with Sherlock as though she hadn’t had the most reality-shattering revelation of the year. She needed to act like nothing had changed, or else Sherlock would work out why she was acting so oddly, and the last thing she needed was for Sherlock to  _ deduce  _ her childish crush on him. No. Out of sight, out of mind, and soon this little crush would dissipate into nothingness and she could focus on improving her skills as a detective, and Sherlock would hopefully be none the wiser. 

Of course, this was easier said than done. Once the seed had been planted in Joan’s mind, she could no longer wish the thought away as easily as she would have hoped. 

Currently, Joan and Sherlock were sitting on the couch, sipping tea and staring determinedly at the wall full of pictures and notes for a case that was proving to be more difficult than they expected. Or, at least, Sherlock was staring at the wall, and Joan was shooting the man glances out of the corner of her eye, taking in his features. There was a certain ruggedness to his attractiveness that made it impossible to look away, even though her mind was screaming that Sherlock would notice any second now. She was just appreciating the sharp slope of his nose when Sherlock interrupted her train of thought. 

“Would you like to go on a date?” he asked, in a perfectly casual tone. Joan, who was just taking a delicate sip of her tea, promptly swallowed a much larger mouthful than she intended and burnt her tongue.  

“Sorry,” was her reply after the less than elegant reaction she had just displayed. “What?”

Sherlock turned to face her, and she was suddenly being pinned down by the intense gaze, staring directly at her and feeling as though it could gaze into her soul and read her every secret like a book. The scary thing was, she wouldn't be surprised if he could. 

The scary thing was, she might have even let him. 

“You heard me,” Sherlock said pointedly. “You have been subconsciously interested in me for quite some time, that much is clear from your body language, and I find you just as attractive as you find me. I see no reason why we should deny ourselves of a pleasure we both have access to, and you do not seem to be readily inclined to a one night stand. Even if you  _ were  _ such inclined, I appreciate you too much as a colleague to let this end so quickly. Hence, a date.”

Joan wasn't entirely sure what to say. She was silent for a moment, trying to muster up an appropriate response, before giving up and asking, “Quite some time?”

“Yes, well, it was obvious that your attraction remained rather firmly in the category of ‘subconscious’, and I was aware that pushing your… feelings, to the surface of your conscience would merely destroy the friendship that has been painstakingly built between us,” Sherlock explained impatiently, his gaze returning to the wall. His hand gestured in emphasis of his words, but his movements were jerky, stilted, and Joan, with a start of realisation, pinpointed it as  _ nerves.  _ Sherlock Holmes was nervous and asking her out on a date. What on earth had the world come to? “So I waited until you were more aware of your feelings, as you clearly are now, before making my intentions clear.” 

The silence stretched on, as Joan’s mind whirred with this new information that seemed impossible to process. It felt a little like a joke, like Sherlock was going to jump up and laugh in her face, tell her she’d been pranked, mock her. But as the seconds ticked by, longer than months and years, Sherlock did none of this, and only grew more fidgety as Joan continued to say nothing. She felt bad, slightly, a little twinge of guilt in her chest that she couldn’t ignore. Sherlock was clearly thrumming  with anxiety, and she was still trying to figure out if he was telling the truth or not. 

“Okay,” she said finally.

Sherlock’s head whipped around so fast that it must have hurt. His eyes were wide, and this, coupled with the ruffled hair, made him look something like a startled owl. “Okay what?” 

“Okay, I’ll go on a date with you,” Joan clarified, wondering vaguely if she had entered some alternate universe. “It sounds fun.”

Sherlock continued to look at her for a moment, before a miniscule smile tilted his lips up. He hummed, turning to the wall again, but he looked just a tad too content for someone investigating a serial killer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i admit im not entirely sure how many chapters this is going to be, but i'm estimating around 5 or 6??? but honestly idk


	2. Chapter 2

If being asked out by Sherlock was strange, then dating him was a whole new world of surreal. She had expected a drastic change, but, strangely enough, their dynamic didn’t change much. Their mornings began one of two ways: either they would wake at the same time, with Sherlock leaping out of bed and rustling around to begin his day and thus rousing Joan, who now spent more time in his bed than her own, or, after spending a night together, Sherlock would slip off sometime in the early hours, and return at a more socially acceptable time to wake her up with an exceptionally loud alarm, the smell of bacon and coffee, Clyde the tortoise, or - Joan’s personal favourite - kisses. Once they were both sufficiently awake and aware of their surroundings, they would eat breakfast together, discussing their plans for the day as Sherlock stole bites of Joan’s toast when she wasn’t looking. 

They hadn’t talked about the public status of their relationship. When Joan had asked, Sherlock had shrugged. 

“It does not bother me. I have no problem announcing to the world with great glee that I am dating the wondrously gorgeous Joan Watson-” it was silly to blush at this stage, but Joan couldn’t help herself, “-and would not be bothered in the least if everyone knew. However, if such a thing makes you uncomfortable, I am more than happy to keep our relationship more under wraps.” 

It had taken a moment of contemplation, but Joan had finally said, “I think we should keep it quiet for just a little longer. Not forever, but just long enough so that we know where this is going.” 

Sherlock had nodded. “A smart decision. I expected nothing less from you.” 

“You flatter me,” had been Joan’s dry response, but it was a little difficult to keep a straight face when Sherlock was wrapping an arm around you and kissing you firmly on the mouth. 

They went out for dates, occasionally. Often, they were busy with work, but they found the time once in a while to sit at a coffee shop. Sherlock was notorious for loathing small talk, and yet it was clear that he was putting in an obvious effort when he began asking how Joan’s day was. She, in turn, would ask him about trivia, and would listen to him ramble delightedly on about a specific species of bee which she had never before heard of in her life. It was more than slightly endearing. 

There was very little change in their work dynamic. Both were so absorbed in investigations that they never actually had the opportunity to do anything that might make Captain Gregson, Detective Bell or anyone else in the precinct suspicious of how far their relationship extended. For once, Joan was glad for their large workload. 

It was nice, much nicer than Joan could have predicted. Coming home at the same time, lounging on the couch together as Sherlock did research and Joan read a book that had spent far too long in her 'to-read’ list, Sherlock quizzing Joan and rewarding each correct answer with a kiss, being able to appreciate his (frankly, gorgeous) physique without shame or embarrassment… In fact, all of it felt so comfortably familiar that Joan wondered if they had, to some extent, been dating before too. After all, what other reason could there be for the warm sense of 'home’ she felt when lying in Sherlock's arms, sweaty and sated?

And then, Sherlock had announced something that had made her question all this. 

She had been at the kids’ park again with Emily, watching the children run and scream as she chatted with her old friend. The sun had been warm against her skin, and it was a nice day. She was just in the middle of explaining how she didn't  _ need  _ a dating website, that she wasn't looking for romance at the moment, when her phone pinged with a message. She knew it was Sherlock - she almost had a sixth sense with these things - and when she pulled her phone out of her pocket with an apologetic grimace in Emily’s direction, lo and behold, Sherlock's name graced her screen, along with the message, “we need to talk”. Just as Joan was convincing herself not to panic, he added, “about us”. 

Well. So much for not panicking. 

“Are you okay?” Emily asked, clearly concerned. Joan looked up, startled out of her reverie, and waved a dismissive hand airily. 

“I'm fine, I'm fine,” she answered. “So, what was I saying?”

“That you're planning on being miserably alone for the rest of your life until you become an old grandma with too many cats?” Emily suggested dryly, earning a laugh from Joan. 

As Joan returned to the brownstone, her entire being was filled with trepidation. To her, this 'talk’ could only mean bad news. No one wrote a mysteriously ambiguous text about some sort of 'talk’ to their significant other without it being some sort of life-changing (or, at least, relationship-changing) issue. It took several calming breaths, some quick meditation and the firm firm removal of any thoughts related to breakups from her mind, before she felt calm enough to make her way up the steps and open the door of their home. 

As she pushed open the door, she called, “Sherlock? You home?”

For a second, there was no reply, but then a distant voice called 'here’ from what appeared to be the kitchen. She made her way down, and was greeted with the sight of a barefooted Sherlock sitting crosslegged on the kitchen floor, hands placed on his knees and his entire posture stiff and awkward. This  _ wasn't _ looking good.

“Hey,” she said gently. “You said you wanted to talk?”

Sherlock hummed. His gaze, as it had been since she walked into the kitchen, was firmly on one spot of the floor.“Yes, I did. Have a seat.”

“You know we have chairs in this place, right?” Joan said dryly, but made her way to sit next to Sherlock, crossing her legs in imitation of his pose. “Are we supposed to be meditating?”

“No,” was Sherlock's answer. “I am merely building up the courage to tell you something that should probably have been mentioned at the beginning of our relationship.”

This was sounding less and less like a breakup. Joan didn't know if she should be relieved or concerned. “Well, we've only been dating for a month, I say it still  _ is  _ the beginning of our relationship.”

Sherlock hummed again, this time in apparent agreement. “I am…” he trailed off, and, as the silence stretched on, Joan's urge to scream in frustration, run away or strangle the man next to him grew with every millisecond. It was like every cell in her body was vibrating with nervous energy, and Sherlock's dramatic pauses were not helping in the least. “Polyamorous.”

Oh. Well. That wasn't nearly as bad as what Joan had been expecting.

“I understand that this may be something of a… deal-breaker, for many, and I apologise for not mentioning it earlier, but I’m sure that you understand my trepidation,” he added hurriedly before she could say anything. He was speaking fast, or, well, even faster than usual, and was blinking just a little too frequently. God, Joan must be spending too much time with him if she was noticing these small changes in behaviour. “I suspect that you may have even guessed this, since you have witnessed me entertain more than one… lover, in the past. I just wanted you to know that, despite this, it does not mean that I will cheat on you, and I would sooner slit my own hand off than-” 

_ “Sherlock,”  _ Joan interrupted. He was startled into silence, finally meeting her gaze. She smiled as gently as she could. “It’s fine. It doesn’t bother me. It’s not a deal-breaker or whatever.” 

Sherlock didn’t say anything for a moment, brows creasing in thought. “And you’re quite sure?” 

“Yes,” she said firmly. “Can we get off the floor now?” 

Sherlock grinned, sudden and wicked, and the sight shouldn’t have made Joan’s heart beat faster, but goddamnit it did. She smiled back, and he leaned in, one hand curling against her cheek to cup her face as he kissed her deeply. His lips were heaven, and oh so talented, and Joan let herself lose her thoughts to the feeling of gentle lips and the thumb that was caressing her cheekbone with glowing admiration. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> imagine an alternate universe where i could actually write hahahahahahahahahahahaha um sorry about the less than stellar quality writing here


	3. Chapter 3

Nothing out of the ordinary happened for the next few months.

Well, technically, that was an incorrect statement. There was no ‘ordinary’ when you were dating Sherlock Holmes, and she found herself on wild adventures she could only dream of. They continued to carry out their investigations, and Joan could confidently say that she had greatly proved that she had advanced much in her deduction skills. They took turns planning dates, meaning Joan was regularly visiting places that had never crossed her mind, tunnels that she had never knew existed, and, on one memorable occasion, climbing a mountain to admire the view from above. Joan had been worried their her dates would seem a little lacklustre in comparison to Sherlock’s, but surprisingly, he had admitted that he thought it could be quite refreshing to leave his apartment after holing himself up in their for days with a case to take a picnic in a secluded corner in the park.

But Sherlock’s polyamorous identity was not brought up. Joan saw no need to, unless Sherlock was seriously considering dating someone else. In fact, it had almost completely escaped her mind. 

Until one day, he approached her, fingers fidgeting with the frayed sleeves of his sweater and looking awkward. 

“We need to talk,” he said, the words tumbling out of his mouth quickly as though he was afraid of losing the courage to speak. 

Months ago, Joan would have been nervous. But now, she understood that the words ‘we need to talk’, from Sherlock, usually meant that he needed to talk about  _ himself,  _ and that he was about to admit something that he thought would make Joan angry or upset. The last time he had said ‘we need to talk’, he had confessed to shoving clothes into forgotten drawers in order to avoid having to wash them. So when she heard those words leave his mouth, her first instinct was to comfort him with a hand resting gently on his upper arm and a gentle smile gracing her lips. She felt his muscles relax minutely under her touch. 

“What is it?” Joan asked. 

“I, uh,” he glanced away. “I think it would probably a good idea if I told you that I may have possibly developed somewhat of a romantic interest for someone, correct?” 

No wonder he was so nervous. Joan couldn’t imagine many people in a relationship would react all too well to that kind of news. Thankfully, she wasn’t in the most conventional relationship, not when she was dating Sherlock Holmes. 

Though, despite telling Sherlock she had no problem with him being polyamorous, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of trepidation upon the news. She had accepted Sherlock being polyamorous without thought, had been convinced that he would not act upon any other… crushes (lovers? The word sounded a little old-fashioned, but Sherlock was rubbing off on her), but she hadn’t considered how their relationship would change if he did start dating someone else.  _ Would  _ it even change? She had no idea. The research she had done into polyamory after Sherlock had mentioned it had been more focused on how to respect his identity, and she found that she still didn’t fully understand how the complex dynamics of a polyamorous relationship would apply to them. That was, of course, assuming that Sherlock would date this mysterious other person, but Joan knew Sherlock well. He was not the type to sit around and not chase after what he wanted. 

“Okay,” she said slowly. Sherlock still looked nervous, and was examining her expression with concern. “Who is it?” 

Sherlock didn’t answer her question at first, firing back with, “So you don’t mind?” 

“Not at all,” Joan said honestly. She might be a little unsure, but she had no doubt in her mind that they could make it work somehow. 

There was an almost imperceptible sigh that left Sherlock upon her words. “Detective Bell.” 

Oh.  _ Oh.  _ Well. That hadn’t been what she’d been expecting. For some reason, she had been waiting for him to say a name that she had never heard of before, or to talk about someone he had only just met. 

“You are surprised,” Sherlock said, frowning ever so slightly. “You are aware of my interests in men, are you not? You've walked in on more than one of my male lovers before. What about Detective Bell, specifically, surprises you?”

“I don't know,” Joan said honestly. Her finger tapped a rhythm against the couch as she thought. Sherlock waited patiently. Or, well, as patiently as Sherlock Holmes was capable. “I guess it's because I've never seen you show any interest in him when you guys are together. You treat him like a co-worker.”

“Well, that's for a reason,” Sherlock replied, fiddling with his sleeve again and suddenly extremely fascinated by a loose thread. He caught it between his fingers and brought it to his mouth, presumably to bite it off. Joan slapped his hand away, ignoring the somewhat amused look he sent her. God knows how many germs he could get from that thing. “It's not like I _ want  _ Detective Bell to know that I have a schoolboy crush on him.”

“And yet you still can't refer to him by his first name,” Joan smiled. When Sherlock visibly bristled, she laughed, covering her mouth with a hand. “Don't look at me like that. It's cute!”

“To you, perhaps,. You're not the one struggling to control yourself when Detective Bell appears at our door wearing a  _ t-shirt _ ,” Sherlock grumbled, leaning back. His lips had formed a pout that looked nothing short of hilarious on the face of the usually serious man, and he had crossed his arms to emphasise his lack of amusement in the situation. It was kind of adorable, and Joan leaned in to plant a firm kiss against those familiar lips. Sherlock reciprocated immediately, and even tried to follow her when she moved away, but she wasn't done with their little conversation.

“So,” she said, “Are you going to ask him out?” 

Sherlock looked appalled. 

“Why on Earth would I do that?” he asked, sounding horrified. “Dear god, I thought you were  _ intelligent.  _ That is quite possibly the worst idea I've heard all week, and that's even after Alfredo suggested I 'take a break' from detective work.”

“Gee, thanks,” Joan said dryly. “But why not? He's attractive, definitely bisexual, and you won't know if he's into you until you at least mention something.” When Sherlock opened his mouth, clearly ready to argue, she held a finger, quickly adding,  _ “And  _ if you've already figured through your oh so talented deduction skills that he's  _ not  _ currently into you, maybe it takes asking him out to be a wake up call to his subconscious, who is  _ definitely _ somewhat interested.”

“I am well aware of his attraction to me, thank you very much,” Sherlock frowned, looking not unlike a pouty child. 

“Then what's your problem?” Joan asked. “Go get your man!”

Sherlock's frown only deepened. “You… would be okay with me dating a man at the same time as dating you?”

“I mean, we're going to have to have a pretty long talk about the details of how it's going to work, but it's definitely not an issue from my end.”

Sherlock made a thoughtful little 'huh’ sound, looking at the ceiling for a moment. When he turned to Joan again, who was waiting with an expectant expression and ready to hear Sherlock give in to his more-than-mild affections, he said, “Well, regardless to that, I will not be pursuing Detective Bell.”

“What? Why?” Joan asked. Sherlock stood abruptly, his movements stiff in the way that they always were, and marched off to the kitchen with the jerky manner that would not be out of place in a soldiers march. She followed him, the hurried click-clack noises of her heels contrasting Sherlock's even footsteps.

“Compartmentalisation!” Sherlock almost shouted, throwing his hands in the air with frustration that she usually only saw in the midst of a difficult case. “I cannot mix such an important figure in the workplace with my personal life, it isn't  _ done.  _ I need to keep things separate.”

“I'm in your personal life  _ and  _ your workplace,” Joan pointed out as Sherlock began to peel an orange with all the anger of a man whose mother had been killed. 

“Yes,” he said impatiently. “But you're _ you.  _ You're an exception.”

That probably wasn't a compliment, but Joan couldn't help but feel a little flattered anyway. God, she was spending too much time with this man, if all it took was calling her an 'exception’ to make her feel pleased. 

“Why can't there be more than one exception?” she asked, stepping closer to Sherlock. When he refused to meet her gaze, she rested her hand on his cheek, tilting his head until his eyes met hers, open and uncharacteristically open. “If you like him so much, you should go after what - or who - makes you happy.”

Sherlock sighed heavily, and his shoulders slumped with defeat. It normally took much more to convince Sherlock to take a course of action he didn't like, but Joan knew, from the moment he had started talking, that he had been at least somewhat considering the idea. She had just given him that final nudge. 

Joan leaned in to kiss him, and he sighed a second time against her lips. There was something familiar about the rhythm in which their lips moved against each others, a melody that they had known all their lives and had rested, dormant, in their bones. Perhaps she was being a tad too romantic, but she couldn’t help it, not when dating Sherlock felt like something she had been waiting for her entire life. She felt like she  _ belonged  _ here. It was where she was supposed to be. And maybe where  _ he  _ was supposed to be too. They contrasted in almost every way, that was without a doubt, but there was a chance that the saying ‘opposites attract’ held some truth to it after all. 

“Hey,” Joan murmured against his lips, stroking the stray hairs at the nape of his neck. “If you decide you want to date Marcus too-” Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but she silenced him with a quick kiss. “I said,  _ if,  _ then I’m fine with it.” 

And it was true. 

Sherlock was silent for a moment, before whispering, “Thank you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and the title's finally been mentioned! im terrible at coming up with titles tbh and this pathetic attempt is actually one of my best so far, in terms of relevance to the story and cheesiness


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING!!!!!! extremely gruesome description of a crime scene, mutilated bodies, hate crimes targeted towards a lesbian couple. also, joan has a panic attack in the second half of this chapter, but it's not very specific and doesn't go into too much detail. go to the end notes for a summary of the chapter without the details 
> 
> i cant believe i havent updated this in half a year, damn time flies when you've got gcses

Joan started seeing Marcus in a different light from that moment. When she and Sherlock showed up at the precinct the morning after their conversation, they were greeted with one Detective Marcus Bell, and how could anyone except Joan to  _ not  _ think about Sherlock’s confession? 

He was unfairly handsome, Joan thought, as Marcus explained a latest gruesome homicide case with a grimace. Of course, she had known this before, had been well aware that Marcus was conventionally attractive. But she had never truly paid attention to it. His hair had little waves in it, and she had yet to find a flaw in his facial features despite intense scrutiny intended to make her less attracted to him and only succeeded in making her even more so. It was tragic, really. How could someone as gorgeous as Marcus be single?

She pushed the thought away quickly, feeling a little horrified. She wasn’t going to end up with a crush on her colleague just because her boyfriend had a crush on him too. She  _ wasn’t.  _ She wasn’t some little middle-school girl who wanted to be crushing on the same guy as her best friend so they could have something to bond over. Joan was an  _ adult,  _ dammit.

“You alright there?” 

She was brought back to reality by Marcus’ voice, and her eyes re-focused to see said colleague watching her with a concerned crease in his forehead. 

“Um, yeah, I’m fine,” Joan said, thanking any deity listening for her improved acting skills ever since she had become a detective. “What were you saying?” 

Marcus didn’t seem convinced, but didn’t argue. “We’re heading to the crime scene now, you might wanna prepare yourselves. It’s not pretty.” 

“That won’t be a problem, Detective Bell,” Sherlock said shortly, in a tone that would have sounded rude and impatient to the unfamiliar observer but, to Joan and Marcus, was read as curiosity. “Shall we get going?” 

Marcus nodded. “Let me just get my coat.” 

As Marcus walked away, Sherlock turned to Joan with a small smirk dancing at his lips. Of course. No matter how good her acting skills were, it would take someone exemplary to fool Sherlock. Joan knew, with very little doubt, that Sherlock was aware of the thought process that had managed to sneak into her brain and get her all flustered; the barely-suppressed smirk, raised eyebrows and silence made this very clear.

“Don’t say anything,” Joan sighed, brushing her hair out of her face and walking away quickly. Hearing Sherlock snort did not, strangely enough, fill her with frustration, embarrassment or any other emotion she might had predicted. Instead, she felt… fond. Perhaps the two of them were closer than she thought, if she could handle him making fun of her. Considering her lack of patience for people who had the nerve to laugh in her face, it seemed likely. 

The murder scene was just as grisly as Marcus had described it. The floor was almost completely covered in blood, crimson red soaking the wood-panelled floors and coating the walls, making it almost impossible to tell whether or not the walls had been painted red in the first place. Body parts were scattered across the floor, clearly belonging to more than one or two people. An amputated leg here, a detached arm there, etc. Near the door was a collection of fingers, all in a row, from largest to smallest. The pinky that was placed at the furthest end was so small that one of the dead bodies had to belong to a baby. There was one clear exception: one victim had their heart ripped out and placed in the middle of the room, a  pièce de résistance , a star artifact at a museum or the most expensive masterpiece at an art gallery. 

“Well,” Sherlock said lowly. “This was most certainly a crime of passion.” 

Joan noticed that, at some point, her hand had come up to cover her face. With some effort, she pulled it away, and instead began to fiddle with the strap of her bag. The scene was too horrid to look at, and her gaze went to Sherlock. His face was blank, displaying no emotion, but his lips were pursed, and the muscles in his jaw betrayed how tightly they were clenched.

“We figured that out, funnily enough,” Captain Gregson said in a sombre voice. “The victims are all from the Stewards family. Tracy and Adeline Stewards were a married couple with three children, Aidan, aged twelve, Madison, aged six, and Tony, their fourteen month old baby. Tracy Stewards’ sister, Alissa, was the one who called in the incident when she let herself into their apartment and found…” the Captain trailed off, casting a gloomy look at their surroundings. “Well, this.” 

“That must be traumatic,” Joan murmured. She couldn’t imagine how she would react to walking into her room  and finding her sibling’s whole family brutally murdered. Alissa must have been devastated. “Where is she now?”

“We've got some officers comforting her downstairs.”

Sherlock began to circle the room slowly, taking great care to not step on anything. It was a difficult feat.

“Do you think this is a hate crime?” Marcus murmured into her ear. Joan startled - when had he gotten so close? - before willing her heart to cease its erratic beating and answering the detective’s question. 

“Possibly. Lesbian couples with kids aren’t exactly the most popular people around,” Joan said. She felt a little sick, bile rising up her throat at the thought of the family who could have lost their lives in the most gruesome and heartless way, all because of who they loved. “But that doesn’t mean there aren’t other options.”

Marcus hummed in agreement. Joan stuck a look at him - it was unusual to see him so sombre. It was almost like he had been personally connected to the Stewards family. 

Speaking of… Joan’s gaze wandered back to the detached leg that was closest to her. If they  _ had  _ been killed as a homophobic hate crime, which wasn’t entirely implausible… Well, it was all too easy to imagine Joan in that situation. Finally finding someone she was happy with, settling down, starting a family. It was so easy to picture herself in the domestic bliss that life could afford her, one she didn’t have the luxury of, thanks to her career choice. It could have been so easy for it to have been  _ her  _ that was murdered brutally. 

Joan’s stomach twisted at the thought. Realising she was bisexual at the tender age of ten had not been a fun experience, and had led to many nightmares of being beaten, homophobic slurs, and other things a ten year old should not have to be worried about. This had only been reinforced the first time she had come out to someone; her best friend at the time, Michaela, had seemed trustworthy enough that Joan decided to share the burden. Michaela proceeded to push her away, never directly spoke to her again, and would often mutter ‘dyke’ under her breath whenever circumstances - usually seating plans and group projects - forced them into close proximity. It could have been worse, Joan had reasoned to herself at the time. Michaela could have outed her to everyone in the school and her less-than-accepting family. That hadn’t made the sudden lack of a best friend any less painful. 

“Watson, are you okay?” a concerned voice asked, and Joan snapped back into the presence suddenly to see Captain Gregson’s furrowed brow and downturned lips.

“Fine,” she replied immediately, plastering a smile onto her face like a mask. The Captain did not appear any more convinced, but he did not push.

Joan couldn’t stay in the room anymore, not when seeing the Stewards’ family and their gruesome fate was bringing up such painful memories, like the twisted look of disgust on Michaela’s face, or her mother’s sneer whenever someone mentioned a gay person. Her breath was quickening, and she felt hot, too hot, was it hot or was she just imagining it? Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Sherlock watching her, but she couldn’t pretend she was okay. Just the thought of the amount of effort it would require to put on a fake smile and dismiss their concerns was draining her of energy. 

She was getting dizzy. Her heart was beating too fast. She was sweating. Her hands were shaking. She couldn’t breathe, oh god she couldn’t breathe. She needed to get out.

Joan was out the door and hurrying down the stairs before they could say anything. She thought she heard someone call her name, but she couldn't concentrate on anything until she made it outside, gasping in air like a someone dying of thirst, like she had broken the surface of water after almost drowning. One of the officers that was standing at the door rushed towards her, and she vaguely registered the concerned looks of the other officers.

By the time Joan had recovered from her panic attack, she counted... two, three, four people standing too close to her, suffocating her. One of them was Sherlock, eyes wide and worried, brow creased. 

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” she said in a clipped voice. She was still breathing heavily, and felt like all the energy had been zapped from her body, but she’d be damned if she showed any more weakness than she had already. She narrowed her eyes at the three officers standing beside her, looking concerned. But before she could figure out a way to politely ask them to step away and not make her feel so crowded in, Sherlock had already gestured at them to disappear. 

“You’re sure?” he asked when it was just the two of them. He didn’t step any closer, thankfully. Joan didn’t think she could handle that. 

“I think so,” Joan replied. She cursed her voice for sounding shaky. “I don’t know why that happened. I’ve been to so many crime scenes that you’d think I’d get used to it.” 

Sherlock shrugged, still watching her carefully.  “Such gruesome displays of violence are not something one can just  _ get used  _ to. Your reaction was not unreasonable.” 

Joan hummed. Talking seemed to be such an arduous task after a panic attack, and as much as she loved 

“Perhaps you should return to the brownstone?” Sherlock suggested lightly. “You seem rather drained.” 

“But the case-” Joan began to protest. She wasn’t sure why. There was no way in hell she would be any use at all right now, and would probably end up being more of a hindrance than a help.

“Can be dealt with,” Sherlock finished firmly. His face broke into a rare smile, making him look younger. Joan loved that smile. It was soft, and warm, and she felt honoured every time he trusted her enough to show her this side of him. 

“Thank you,” Joan murmured.

Sherlock didn’t reply, but gave a slow nod. His smile transformed into a frown. “Though… Is going home alone such a good idea? Leaving you alone in this state seems a little… unwise.” 

“I’ll be fine,” Joan reassured him. Sherlock didn’t look convinced. 

“Maybe call a friend?”

Joan remembered that Emily had the week off from work. She had been meaning to catch up with her anyway. “Sure. I’ll text you later.” She hesitated. One of the main concepts that her therapist tried to drill into her every session was that her mental health was not an inconvenience. Except Sherlock should have been inside, dissecting the crime scene, finding the criminal before he got away or did more damage. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” Sherlock said immediately. “You’ve not been in the field of work for as long as others, and even the most seasoned veterans get shaken by particularly gory scenes.” He said this in such a grave tone that Joan wondered if he was talking about himself. She had forgotten that Sherlock could be just as shaken by such extreme violence, despite his facade of stoicness and detachedness. “It’s only human. You shouldn’t have to apologise for your humanity.” 

It was moments like that that Joan was reminded how sweet her boyfriend was.

“Thank you,” she said. Sherlock smiled, before stepping forward to kiss her quickly. 

By the time Joan was at the park, sitting with Emily and watching her daughter befriend a young boy, Joan had managed to push the image of the Stewards family out of the forefront of her mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> joan sees the dead family and realises that it could have easily been her. she remembers coming out to her best friend at a young age as bisexual and being the victim of homophobia. she has a panic attack, goes outside, and sherlock follows her. he suggests she leaves, with someone to make sure she doesnt have any panic attack whilst alone. joan calls emily and goes to the park with her daughter


End file.
